"Wolfe Trap" is Costâs debut novel in a new series surrounding a PI, Clay Wolfe, in the fictional coastal town of Port Essex, Maine. Instead of a large white shark threatening the populace, it is heroin being smuggled through lobster traps that is endangering the town.
What evil lurks in Port Essex, Maine?
Clay Wolfe is a former Boston homicide detective who has left the police department to return home to Maine to care for his elderly grandfather and open a private detective agency. Haunted by being orphaned at an early age, and jaded by the corruption of the big city, Clay is happy to hit pause and investigate minor crimes.
âI want you to find the person who sold the drugs that killed my grandbaby.â
When he is hired to find out who sold the drugs that killed a six-month-old baby girl, he has no idea of the evil that he is going to uncover in the underbelly of his hometown.
Wolfe Trap is a thrilling ride set in a small Maine town with rich characters and shocking plot twists that will keep the reader rapt until the final pages.
"Wolfe Trap" is Costâs debut novel in a new series surrounding a PI, Clay Wolfe, in the fictional coastal town of Port Essex, Maine. Instead of a large white shark threatening the populace, it is heroin being smuggled through lobster traps that is endangering the town.
What evil lurks in Port Essex, Maine?
Clay Wolfe is a former Boston homicide detective who has left the police department to return home to Maine to care for his elderly grandfather and open a private detective agency. Haunted by being orphaned at an early age, and jaded by the corruption of the big city, Clay is happy to hit pause and investigate minor crimes.
âI want you to find the person who sold the drugs that killed my grandbaby.â
When he is hired to find out who sold the drugs that killed a six-month-old baby girl, he has no idea of the evil that he is going to uncover in the underbelly of his hometown.
Wolfe Trap is a thrilling ride set in a small Maine town with rich characters and shocking plot twists that will keep the reader rapt until the final pages.
Chapter 1: Tuesday, June 30thÂ
âI want you to find the person who supplied the drugs that killed my grandbaby.â
Clay Wolfe eyed the woman across the desk from him. She was either about sixty years oldâor a rather rough forty-five, rode hard and put away wet. He guessed the latter. She was thin, petite, with a shocking pink tube top encasing her Lilliputian bosom, and a jean skirt wrapped around a diminutive waist from which sprouted birdlike legs. As she spoke, she carelessly waved an unlit cigarette.
His receptionist had texted him minutes earlier asking when he was getting into the office, as there was a client waiting. Clay had just finished reading the paper at the diner, so heâd flipped a twenty onto the table to cover his breakfast and then walked the few steps down the street to his private detective agency.Â
Clay was just six feet tall and 180 pounds. His hair was dirty blond, his eyes that rare combination of blue and green that seemed to change back and forth, like an opal in the sunlight. He sported a goatee and mustache that appeared the result of a few days of neglect, but in reality, was a look he cultivated with his trimmer. His shirt was carefully pressed under a waistcoat, with slim-fit jeans completing the ensemble.Â
âLetâs start at the beginning,â he said. âIâm Clay Wolfe.â
âCrystal Landry.â She ignored his proffered hand.
He would have offered her coffee, but he guessed by her agitated movements and flickering eyes that she didnât need any caffeine. He hoped he didnât have to dissuade her from lighting the cigarette. They sat in his office, back behind the reception area, a bathroom off to one side completing the premises of Clay Wolfe, Private Detective.Â
âDo you live in Port Essex, Crystal?âÂ
âYeah, out in Botany Village.â This was a trailer park up the hill on the outskirts of downtown.
âHow long you been there?â
âYou writing a fuckinâ book?â
Clay didnât deign to reply. If nothing else, he was a patient man. That might go hand in hand with jaded and cynical.Â
The majority of his cases were insurance fraud, one of his biggest employees being the shipyard in Bath. He was called in to investigate disability and workmanâs compensation claims, just to make sure the employees were telling the truth about their injuries. More often than not, John Doe was lying about being incapacitated, unable to walk, bend over, lift heavy objects, or what not. But, when there was doubt or when an âinjuryâ had dragged on too long, it was up to Clay to get the proof that instead of being laid up at home, these employees were actually gallivanting on the beaches of Florida or some such thing.
âOkay, okay,â she said. âDonât know why you need to know how long, but whatever. About five years now.â
âHow old isâŚwas your granddaughter, Crystal?â Clay wondered if he looked as weary as this woman. He knew he sometimes felt it, having left the Boston Police Department about a year earlier after shooting a man, with all the stress and emotional upheaval that had entailed.Â
âShe was six months on the dot the day she died.â A hard tear tumbled down her cheek.
âAnd how did she die?âÂ
âShe overdosed on fuckinâ drugs, I already told you.â Crystal stood as if to lunge at him, but then began pacing in an office that wouldâve made Sam Spade jealousâif Spade didnât dismiss it out of hand as pretentious, that is.
The office was not only spacious and well-appointed, but its main feature was a stunning picture window overlooking Essex Harbor. There was a torn and ragged leather couch on which Clay had grabbed many a nap, and where heâd even slept the night through a few times. His desk was made of cherry wood and gleamed a deep red, more from the efforts of his receptionist than his own. On the left was another desk with his computer and printer, while the right-side had two tall gray filing cabinets. There were two L.L. Bean Lodge armchairs of rich brown leather similar to the couch, but much less worn, facing him.
âWhat drug?â Of all the addictions Clay had struggled with throughout his life, drugs had never been one of them. Unless you included alcohol.
âHeroin.â
âHow did a six-month-old baby get heroin?â
âHow the fuck you think?âÂ
Clay sat stone-faced and waited. The second source of clients for Clay was from clients whoâd the victims of the cheating spouses. Maine was a no-fault divorce state, but he was still hired to find proof of infidelities. More often than not these flings resulted in a few black eyes and reconciliation or were used to void prenuptial agreements, or otherwise mitigate damaging divorce settlements. Port Essex was an intriguing mix of hard-working poor, prosperous fishermen, and incredibly wealthy families who spent their time enjoying the oceanfront views when they werenât in Florida or some other warmer clime in winter.
âI wasnât the best mother. God knows that.â Crystal returned to her seat, sitting forward across the desk, her hands tapping lightly on the wood, the cigarette tucked precariously behind her ear. âHer dad ditched us. I had more than my share of boyfriends. Did some drugs. But Iâve been clean now for three years.â
âCongratulations.â He looked her over again, nodding at his earlier guess about her age. Heroin would do that to a person, destroy their looks and age them beyond their years.
After his parents and grandmother had died, Clayâs grandpops had hired a woman to be his nanny. She had not been unlike this woman in her toughness, if perhaps a bit more refined in language. He hadnât thought about his nanny in over twenty years and made a mental note to ask Gene about her.
Crystal stared intently at him. âI got people that count on me, you know?â
âTell me about what happened to your granddaughter.â
âHer name was Ariel.â
âAnd she was your daughterâs daughter?â
âYes. Kelly Anne was my third child. Of five.â
Clay looked at the waif-like woman in her mid-forties and wondered how sheâd possibly given birth five times. âKelly Anne,â Clay repeated, writing it down.
âYep. Kelly Anne. I named her for that lady who almost won season one of Survivor. That broad kicked ass.â
âThe reality show?â
âYou own a television, Mr. Wolfe?â
Clay did own a television, but he had never watched Survivor, or made it more than five minutes into any other so-called reality show. He preferred movies and Netflix series. Anything without commercials, as a matter of fact.
âAnd Kelly Anne was using heroin?â he asked.
âI suppose so.â Crystal began rocking back and forth in her chair. âSheâd leave little Ariel with me a few nights a week, you know, and I didnât know what she was getting up to.â
Clay doubted that the woman was ignorant of her daughterâs habits. Maybe Crystal Landry was no longer a user, but she was still an enabler, still an inhabitant of that world where heroin or Oxy was just a part of daily life, your own or someone you knew.
âAre you married?â he asked.
âNo,â she said. âI got a boyfriend. Heâs a lobsterman.â
âHow did Ariel overdose on heroin, Crystal?âÂ
âShe didnât mean to kill her.â
âWhat happened, Crystal?â
âThe baby was teething, you know? Crying and screaming all night? She thought it would help to wipe her gums with the residue from the baggies, you know? Just a little bit of it to soothe the pain. And it worked. Right up until it didnât.â
Clay remembered reading something about this in the newspaper, now feeling the same sort of disgust heâd felt the first time. He grunted. Leaned back. Crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. He knew that opioids had become a serious problem over the past years. Thousands had died, just in Maine alone, not to mention the rest of the country.Â
In many cases, babies were born to addicted parents, and if they werenât messed up at birthâwell then, they soon were growing up in a druggie household, or slightly better, the stateâs overburdened and underfunded foster care system. Once in a great while kids would get into their parentsâ stash and overdose, but that was rare. It seemed that druggies were good at not leaving their heroin, or Oxy, or whatever, lying around. It was too important to them.
But, in this case, it had been a baby who had died, not by some mistake, but by ignorance. Clay remembered seeing the picture of the mother in the newspaper. Kelly Anne had the twisted and scarred look of a habitual user. It was not in Clay to try to find evidence for the womanâs proof of innocence. He knew she was guilty just from the picture.
âYour daughter was medicating your granddaughterâs gums with heroin over several weeks? And she overdosed?â He said baldly, wanting to be clear that he had the correct story.
âI know she did wrong, but she was all messed up, you know?â Tears were now running freely down Crystalâs face. âAddiction ainât an easy thing to overcome, Mr. Wolfe, and they keep pushing it on you. I know. I been there.â
âAnd you want me to find evidence to exonerate your daughter from the death?â he asked.
âExonerate?â
âTo prove it was not her fault.â
âIt was her fuckinâ fault, goddammit.â Crystal slammed her tiny fist on the desk in fury. âAinât you listening?â
âWhat is it you want from me?â His words had a slight edge to them.
Crystal hiccupped a huge sob, and then gritted her teeth. Clay watched as she visibly regained her composure.Â
âThe world ainât always black and white, Mr. Wolfe,â she said after a minute.
He shrugged. âIt would be helpful if you would be black and white about what, exactly, it is that you want me to do,â he said.
âI know my daughter is guilty of killing her little girl. Little Ariel. She was my precious angel. Looked just like me, she did.â Crystal wiped her eyes. âBut so is the person who was selling the heroin to my daughter and her good-for-nothing boyfriend. They are just as guilty.â
âJust to be clear,â Clay said. âYou want me to find who was supplying the heroin to your daughter?â
âMy daughter is going to jail, Mr. Wolfe. That I know. But ainât the dealer just as guilty as her? I want him to pay for the crime as well.âÂ
âAny idea who mightâve been dealing to her?â
âNo. I told you. I been done with all that nonsense, done some time now, donât hang with that crowd.â
âYour daughter down at Two Bridges?â Clay asked. It was the county jail and courthouse in Wiscasset.
âShe got out on bail yesterday.â
âShe got out?â He was incredulous.
âYeah, it was just a misdemeanor. She got to go back to court at some time.â
âWhen did the baby, little Ariel, die?âÂ
âAbout two weeks ago.â
âAnd they let Kelly Anne out?â
âOn bail. Sure enough. The lawyer said something about how there was no exact crime for what she did except child endangerment or something.â
âDo you know where sheâs staying?â
âNope. Her boyfriend done kicked her out. DHS took her two older kids and put them into the foster program.â
Clay sighed. âFifty bucks an hour, plus expenses,â he said. This was half his going rate, but what the hell. He doubted heâd even see that out of this lady.
âI got 120 dollars on me right now, Mr. Wolfe. My check comes in Friday, and I can get you another fifty.â Â
He quickly tallied how much of his time this would account for and made a decision. Perhaps running down a small-time drug dealer in Port Essex, Maine, was just what the doctor had ordered to cure Clayâs doldrums. He was tired of looking for proof of lying employees and cheating spouses. That and acting as a bodyguard for people who didnât actually need one, which was his third major source of income. These were often men who thought they were more important than they were. Then there were the husbands who hired him to keep an eye on wives supposedly for safety, but in reality, his presence that of a glorified babysitter to make sure they stayed in line. Perhaps chasing down local drug dealers would have some rejuvenating effect on his soul. Plus, Crystal Landry reminded him of his nanny, who he had called Nan-Ju. Clay idly wondered if her name had actually been Julie. Again, he needed to ask Gene about her.
 âOkay, Crystal.â Clay took fifty from her, pushing seventy back at her. âIâll see what I can do.âÂ
Matt Cost delivers on what is promised in the synopsis. Wolfe Trap, the debut novel set in is primed for a series. The characters and setting are vivid and the conflict â at least in this one â is clear and palpable. Any reader who has seen the propriety emotional shift in a mother who becomes a grandmother will feel the intensity of the story from the first shred of dialog. Nonetheless, the author overrates the effect of a narrative that promises âshocking plot twistsâ will âkeep the reader rapt in until the final pages.â
Wolfe Trap reminded me of Robert B. Parkerâs Jesse Stone series, whose hero is also a emigrant from the big city who fleas to a waterside small town to recoup his soul, then finds those spaces hold their own brand of insanity. Costâs novel has several spots that are overwritten as in Parkerâs novels, but whether readers will find appeal in the preponderance of details is hard to say. I enjoyed some of the asides and in-depth sketches of setting and actions. Other times, I found that style too slow, and craved more on smell, touch and sound. There is a lot of telling not showing.
For example this paragraph is inserted as Wolfe order a drink for an informant:
The bartender nodded. It was just past 9:00 in the morning. Clay was reminded of the time he had gone to Scotland and walked into a bar at a similar hour with two friends. They must have arrived just as a factory shift had gotten out, because the place was packed. When he and his friends had walked in with their backpacks on, the bar had gone eerily silent. It had reminded him of a scene from American Werewolf in London at the time. There were seven other people in the bar this morning, each of them engrossed in the drink in front of them.
The last sentence would suffice. The details on the movie and Scotland matter little to a scene that hinges on a conversation with an informant. Also, the story's conclusion seems rushed. Wolfe Trap ends with a summary of main charactersâ fates, which shows vice in Port Essex goes on.
Cost has two future Wolfe novels planned. I cannot wait to see them.